Category Archives: Peter May

Why’s Everybody Always Pickin’ On Me?*

An interesting post from writer Carol Balawyder has got me thinking about fictional writers. In the post, she reviews Olga Núñez Miret’s Escaping Psychiatry: Beginnings. I’ll admit I’ve not read this novella, but one plot point in the story really got my attention. In it, the protagonist gets involved in a court case where a writer has been accused of murder.

Now, the real-life writers I know – even the crime writers – are very nice people who wouldn’t consider committing murder. And, yet, there are plenty of crime novels where a writer is accused. Perhaps it’s just that writers have a (completely unfounded!) bad reputation. Whatever the reason, there are several examples of this plot point, and I’m not sure I like it!

In Agatha Christie’s Death in the Clouds (AKA Death in the Air), for instance, a detective novelist named Mr. Clancy is on a flight from Paris to London. One of his fellow passengers, Marie Morisot, dies during the flight of what looks at first to be an allergic reaction to a wasp sting. But that’s soon proved not to be true. Hercule Poirot is on the same flight, and he works with Chief Inspector Japp to find out who the real criminal is. The only possible suspects are the other people in the plane’s cabin, so Mr. Clancy becomes a ‘person of interest.’ In fact, two other passengers who interest themselves in the case actually follow Mr. Clancy one evening to see whether he does anything suspicious. Mr. Clancy is, perhaps, not the neatest of housekeepers, and he does get – erm – distracted. But that’s hardly a reason to suspect that he’s a killer.

Nicholas Blake’s The Beast Must Die introduces mystery novelist Frank Cairnes. He is devastated when his son, Martin ‘Martie,’ is killed by a hit-and-run driver. In fact, his diary begins with the sentence,

‘I am going to kill a man.’

His plan is to find out who was driving the car that killed Martie and exact retribution. Little by little, he learns that a man named George Rattery was probably responsible. So, he finds an ‘in’ to the Rattery home and makes his plans. His idea is to drown Rattery during a boat trip. But that doesn’t happen, and the two go back to shore. Later that day, Rattery dies of poisoning, and it’s clear that the poisoning had been planned in advance. Cairnes is suspected, but, as he tells PI Nigel Strangeways, why would he poison a man he’d already planned to drown? And why try to drown a man he was going to poison? Strangeways takes the case and, in the end, finds out who the real killer is.

Mystery novelist Harriet Vane makes her first appearance in Dorothy L. Sayers’ Strong Poison. She’s been arrested for murdering her former lover, Philip Boyes, and there is evidence against her. She was the last person known to have seen the victim, and they had quarreled. As the novel begins, she’s on trial for the crime. Lord Peter Wimsey attends the trial and finds himself smitten with the defendant. In fact, he resolves to clear her name, so that he can marry her. He gets his chance when the jury cannot reach a verdict. The new trial is scheduled for a month later, so Lord Peter has to work quickly to find out who the real killer is. His faith in a writer is reassuring.

In Caroline Graham’s Written in Blood, the members of the Midsomer Worthy Writers Circle is trying to decide whom they’ll invite to speak at their next meeting. After a lot of discussion, it’s decided to invite successful author Max Jennings. One of the members of the group, Gerald Hadleigh, has a history with Jennings, so he’s elected to write Jennings and invite him. Hadleigh has good reason not to want Jennings to accept, since their history has been unpleasant. But he doesn’t want the group to know about that, so he reluctantly writes the letter. To his consternation, Jennings agrees to speak to the group. Late on the night of Jennings’ visit, Hadleigh is murdered. Inspector Tom Barnaby and Sergeant Gavin Troy investigate, and they look into all of the group members’ relationships to find out who would want to kill Hadleigh.

And it’s not just fictional detective story writers who have to cope with this bias. In Peter May’s Coffin Road, for instance, a man stumbles ashore on the Isle of Harris. He has no idea who he is or what he’s doing there. He soon learns, though, that he is a writer who’s apparently been living on the island for the last eighteen months, working on a book about a local Hebrides mystery: the 1900 disappearance of three lighthouse keepers. In his effort to fill in the missing blanks, so to speak, the writer tries to trace his movements from the time he lost his memory. What he finds, though, is a dead man. Now, there’s a terrible possibility that he’s committed a murder. Detective Sergeant (DS) Gunn investigates, and discovers a link between the lighthouse keepers’ disappearance, the dead man, and an Edinburgh teen who becomes convinced that her father (who is supposed to have committed suicide) is still alive. Just because you’re writing about a place doesn’t mean you’ve killed someone, does it?

You see what I mean? Writers are very nice people. I don’t know a single one who would commit murder. And, yet, they keep coming up as suspects in crime novels. One has to wonder about the bias…

Thanks, Carol, for the inspiration. Folks, do visit Carol’s fine blog. And check out her writing. You won’t be sorry.


*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller’s Charlie Brown.


Filed under Agatha Christie, Caroline Graham, Dorothy L. Sayers, Nicholas Blake, Peter May

You Grow Up and Learn That Kind of Thing Ain’t Right*

One interesting way that crime novelists link past and present is to include a character who remembers both. Often (not always), that character was a child at the time of the crime (or the first crime) and is now an adult. One of the tricky things about that plot point is that children have a different perspective to that of adults. And they may not always remember something for what it really was.

That said, though, it can be an effective strategy to have an adult character remember a crime that took place during childhood. It adds a layer of interest and character development. What’s more, this strategy can be a realistic way for the sleuth to learn more about a past crime.

In Agatha Christie’s Five Little Pigs (AKA Murder in Retrospect), for instance, Hercule Poirot gets a new client. Carla Lemarchant wants him to re-open the sixteen-year-old investigation into the murder of her father, famous painter Amyas Crale. Her mother, Caroline Crale, was assumed to be guilty. In fact, she was arrested, tried, and convicted in the matter, and died in prison a year later. But Carla has always believed her mother to be innocent, and she wants Poirot to set the record straight. Carla was only five years old at the time and remembers very little about that time. What’s more, she was swiftly taken away and sent to live elsewhere, so she wasn’t really on the scene. So, Poirot interviews the five people who were there at the time of the murder. One of them is Caroline Crale’s half-sister, Angela Warren, who was fifteen when Crale was killed. Poirot gets her written account of what happened, as well as those of the other witnesses. He also interviews each one. That information helps him get what he needs to solve the case. As he speaks to Angela, and reads her account, it’s interesting to see how she interpreted things when she was a girl, and how she does now. And it plays a role in the story.

Elizabeth George’s A Traitor to Memory introduces readers to twenty-eight-year-old Gideon Davies. He has rare musical talent and has become a world-class violinist. Then one day, he discovers to his shock that he can’t play. Terrified that he’s lost his ability, he seeks out psychological help to get to the root of his ‘music block.’ It turns out that it all has to do with the twenty-year-old death of his younger sister, Sonia, who drowned at the age of two. It also has to do with the hit-and-run death of his mother, Eugenie. As Gideon slowly unravels his past, we learn about his memories of childhood, and how they portray the past. Among other things, it’s an interesting look at the way a tragedy can impact a child and that child’s memory.

That’s also the case in Larry Watson’s Montana 1948. This novella is the story of the Hayden family, who live in Bentrock, the country seat of Mercer County, Montana. The story begins as the narrator, David Hayden, returns to his childhood home. He then recalls the traumatic events of 1948, when he was twelve. At that time, David’s father, Wesley ‘Wes’ is the local sheriff. Life is stable, if a bit predictable. Then, the Hayden’s housekeeper, Marie Little Soldier, becomes seriously ill. She refuses to let David’s Uncle Frank, the local doctor, help her, but won’t explain why at first. Finally, she admits that Frank Hayden has been raping women on the nearby Reservation. Then, Marie dies. At first, it looks like a sudden relapse. But then, little pieces of evidence come up that aren’t consistent with that belief. And now, Wes Hayden has to investigate his own brother for rape and possibly for murder. It’s a terrible choice for him, because he is loyal to his family. And it all makes for a tragic memory for David. It’s interesting, too, how David views his family, both as a boy and as a man.

In one plot line of Sarah Ward’s In Bitter Chill, two girls, Sophie Jenkins and Rachel Jones, walk to school together one January day in 1978. Only Rachel returns. There’s a thorough search, and of course, the police talk to Rachel. But no trace of Sarah is ever found – not even a body. Years later, Detective Inspector (DI) Francis Sadler investigates the apparent suicide of Yvonne Jenkins. There’s a discovery made that links this death to the 1978 case, so Sadler looks into the other case again. When he does, it’s interesting to see what’s happened to Rachel in the intervening years, and to follow her perspective.

And then there’s Peter May’s The Blackhouse. Fionnlagh ‘Fin’ Macleod grew up on the Isle of Lewis and was firmly bound up in life there. But he had his own reasons for leaving. Now, he’s a police detective based in Edinburgh. He’s seconded to the Isle of Lewis when a murder is discovered there that bears a striking similarity to a murder MacLeod is investigating. It’s believed that, if the same person committed both crimes, it makes sense to link the two investigations. MacLeod isn’t eager to ‘go home,’ but he has little choice in the matter. When he returns to his home town, he finds that several of the people he always knew are still there. And, in one plot thread, he has to face several of his memories from growing up. As he continues his investigation, it’s interesting to see how his memories and perspective reflect (or don’t) what really happened.

And that perspective – childhood memories of a murder – can add a great deal to a novel. Authors have lots of possibilities with them. And, they can add a lot to character development.


*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Stevie Wonder’s I Wish.


Filed under Agatha Christie, Elizabeth George, Larry Watson, Peter May, Sarah Ward

When You Were Only Startin’ to Go to Kindergarten*

It’s a ritual that happens in almost every family. I’m talking about the first day of school, especially the first day of Kindergarten or its equivalent. It’s a big event, even for children who’ve been in a child care facility of some kind. It’s an even bigger event for those who haven’t. And it often makes people anxious.

For the parents, it might be the first time their child is ‘officially’ compared to others. And in some countries, it’s the first time that children are expected to do anything like academic work. So, it’s natural for parents to feel anxious (e.g. ‘Will my child make friends/learn letters/behave/etc….’). For the children, starting school means a whole new routine, new adults in charge, and all sorts of new children to meet. And that’s to say nothing of what they’re expected to learn. Some children are excited about it, and some are reluctant, to say the least.

Not the least of parents’ concerns is, of course, their child’s well-being. That’s one reason many parents walk or drive their young children to school (at least until those children beg them not to any more…). We see that sort of concern in Karin Alvtegen’s Betrayal. In that novel, Eva Wirenström-Berg and her husband, Hendrik, seem to have a perfect suburban life, complete with white picket fence. They’ve been married for fifteen years, and they are the proud parents of six-year-old Axel. Then, Eva discovers that Hendrik has been unfaithful. Devastated by this news, she determines to find out who the other woman is. When she does, she makes her own plans, which quickly spiral out of control. In the meantime, she’s got another concern. One day, Axel tells her about a man – someone he doesn’t know – who’s been talking to him over the fence at his school. It scares Eva, as you can imagine, and adds to the tension in the story. And, in its own way, it relates to the larger plot.

Hannah Dennison’s Deadly Desires at Honeychurch Hall features former TV personality Katherine ‘Kat’ Stanford, who’s living with her mother, Iris, in the former carriage house on the estate of Honeychurch Hall, in Devon. The estate’s current owner is Rupert Honeychurch, whose son, Harry, is old enough now to go to school. Like many boys in his social group, Harry is sent away to school, and he doesn’t like the idea at all. He’s miserable away from home and keeps finding excuses to come back to Honeychurch Hall. His unhappiness sparks a major debate in his family. On the one hand, if Harry doesn’t go away to one of the ‘right schools,’ there’s a good chance he won’t get to mix with boys of his social class. This means he won’t get the opportunity to be a part of the networks that are so important to later advancement. On the other hand, there’s no doubt he’s deeply unhappy, and would much prefer to go to the local school. It’s not an easy choice to make, especially for a boy as young as Harry is. Admittedly, it’s not a part of the main plot thread. But it shows what it can be like for families as their children go off to school.

In Peter May’s The Blackhouse, Edinburgh police detective Fionnlagh ‘Fin’ MacLeod is seconded to the Isle of Lewis. There’s been a murder there that resembles a murder MacLeod is investigating, and it’s hoped that, if the same person committed both murders, working as a team might help both groups catch the killer. For MacLeod, this is a homecoming, since he grew up on the Isle of Lewis. But it’s not a particularly joyful one. He had his own good reasons for leaving when he did. And the dead man is a person he used to know. As MacLeod works with the local team to find out who the killer is, he meets several people he grew up with, and we learn about his early life. One of his memories is going to school for the first time (he was excited about it at first). One of the realities of life at the time MacLeod was growing up was the fact that most people on the Isle of Lewis spoke Gaelic. And yet, only English was spoken and taught in school. So, along with getting used to lessons and so on, MacLeod also had to get used to a new language. And that’s a reality for many young children who speak one language at home and/or in their community but must learn another at school.

Claudia Piñeiro’s Thursday Night Widows takes place mostly in an ultra-exclusive community called Cascade Heights Country Club, about thirty miles from Buenos Aires. Only the very wealthy can afford to live there, and even they are not guaranteed acceptance. It’s a very elite place. Residents are expected to shop at certain places, go on certain trips, and send their children only to the ‘right’ schools. Then, the financial crises of the late 1990s (when this novel takes place) find their way into even this most upmarket of places. Everything starts to change, and eventually, it ends in real tragedy. At one point, there’s an interesting discussion of one of the residents, Mariana, getting her daughter ready to go to school for the first time. This school teaches in English, so the child will have to get used to a new school, new children, and a completely new language. But this is one of the ‘right’ schools, and Mariana’s main concern is getting her daughter into the school and then making sure she stays there. Instead of being concerned about her daughter’s readiness, comfort, etc., or easing her anxieties, Mariana is thinking about her daughter’s appearance, and about her superficial success. Certainly, she’s doing nothing to ease the transition to school.

And then there’s Liane Moriarty’s Big Little Lies. This novel takes place within the community of parents and children associated with Piriwee Public School, on Piriwee Peninsula, near Sydney. The main focus is on the Kindergarten class, and the children who are joining it. The plot follows the lives of three families whose children are enrolled in that class, and how those lives intersect. There are rivalries, domestic issues, and other simmering conflicts that boil over one evening and end in tragedy. Throughout the novel, we see the anxiety of starting school for both parents and children. The parents want their children to reflect well on them, of course. The children have their own anxieties, and it’s interesting to see how that tension impacts the story.

Starting school, especially for the first time, can be stressful. It’s almost always eventful, and it can lead to all sorts of anxiety. Little wonder we see this plot point in the genre.


*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Harry Warren and Johnny Mercer’s You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby.


Filed under Claudia Piñeiro, Hannah Dennison, Karin Alvtegen, Liane Moriarty, Peter May

I’m a Sergeant Out of Perrineville Barracks Number 8*

It’s interesting how people’s views of the police can vary. That’s true even if you consider just law-abiding people (after all, those who have a habit of breaking the law aren’t likely to welcome the police). People’s views of the police are affected by lots of factors (social class, culture, whether there are police officers in the family, and so on.

One attitude is expressed neatly in Agatha Christie’s The Hollow. In that novel, Hercule Poirot works with Inspector Grange to find out who shot Dr. John Christow. The victim and his wife, Gerda, were weekend guests at the home of Sir Henry and Lady Lucy Angkatell when Christow was shot. So, naturally, Grange and his men want to talk to all of the members of the household. Here’s what the cook, Mrs. Medway, says when one of the kitchen maids tells the police something she saw:

‘‘It’s common to be mixed up with the police, and don’t you forget it.’’

The belief is that respectable people, regardless of their social class, do not get involved in crime. Many people still have a little of that assumption.

Also inherent in Mrs. Medway’s remark is the belief that the ‘better class’ of people wouldn’t have anything to do with crime. We see that also in Anne Perry’s Face of a Stranger, which takes place in Victorian London. In it, Inspector William Monk searches for the killer of a ‘blueblood’ named Joscelin Grey, who was found killed in his own home. As you might imagine, Monk wants to talk to the members of Grey’s family, to see if any of them might be able to shed light on the matter. Immediately, it’s made clear to him that no-one in a family like the Greys could possibly, in any way all, be mixed up with a sordid crime. He’s better off, he’s told, going after the ‘riffraff’ who committed the crime, then bothering a socially prominent family. Interestingly, in the novel, the police are treated as not very different from tradespeople – certainly not people to be obeyed automatically.

Many people, of course, respect the police, and see them as people to turn to in time of need. There are hundreds of crime novels in which people depend on the police to solve a family member’s murder, or to find a missing loved one. One example is Caroline Graham’s A Ghost in the Machine. In one plot line of the novel, Benny Frayle is devastated when her friend, financial advisor Dennis Brinkley, is killed. On the surface, he died in a tragic accident in the room where he kept his collection of ancient weapons. Benny doesn’t believe this death was an accident, though. So, she goes to the police to ask them to take another look at the case. Chief Inspector Tom Barnaby hears her out, and duly looks over the reports from the initial investigation. He doesn’t see any cause for concern, though. The officers involved did their jobs efficiently and professionally, and they found no reason to call this death anything but an accident. But Benny insists otherwise. Then, there’s another death. A self-styled medium named Ava Garrett dies of what turns out to be poison. Her murder comes shortly after she holds a séance in which she mentions details of Brinkley’s death that she couldn’t have known. Now, Barnaby is convinced that the two deaths are murders, and are related. So, he and his team look into the cases carefully, and find the link between the cases.

There are also plenty of people who don’t want to be involved with the police more than absolutely necessary. Sometimes it’s because they’re afraid of the consequences if they do have anything to do with the police. Sometimes it’s because they distrust authority. Sometimes they see the police as interfering. We see this sort of attitude in Peter May’s The Blackhouse. In that novel, we meet Fionnlagh ‘Fin’ Macleod, an Edinburgh police detective who’s been seconded to the Isle of Lewis to help solve a murder that’s very similar to one he’s already investigating. It’s believed that, if the two murders were committed by the same person, then it makes sense to share information. For MacLeod, this is a homecoming, since he was brought up on the Isle of Lewis. But he had his own reasons for leaving, and he isn’t especially thrilled to be back. Woven into the story is the local people’s natural distrust for ‘the polis.’ That’s also quite evident in William McIlvanney’s Laidlaw, which sees Glasgow Inspector Jack Laidlaw investigating the murder of a young woman who went missing after a night at a disco.

For some people, their view of the police is impacted by negative experiences they’ve had. In other words, the police themselves are the problem. We see that in Garry Disher’s Bitter Wash Road, for example. In it, Constable Paul ‘Hirsch’ Hirschhausen has just been stationed in Tiverton, in rural South Australia. His new assignment is a punishment for ‘whistleblowing’ during an Internal Affairs investigation in Adelaide, so as it is, he’s not particularly popular with his new colleagues. Then, the body of fifteen-year-old Melia Donovan is found by the side of Bitter Wash Road. As Hirsch looks into the case, he learns that several of the local people don’t want to cooperate with him. They assume that he’s in league with the other local police, and they have very good reason not to trust those police. Little by little, though, Hirsch finds out the truth. There are plenty of other novels, too, where people don’t talk to the police, because they know that the police are not to be trusted.

It’s interesting to see how many different views there are of the police. They’re impacted by a lot of different factors, too. And that means that a crime writer has a lot of flexibility when it comes to how the police will be regarded in a novel.


*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Bruce Springsteen’s Highway Patrolman.


Filed under Agatha Christie, Anne Perry, Caroline Graham, Garry Disher, Peter May, William McIlvanney

Double Helix DNA*

As this is posted, it’s 65 years since James Watson and Francis Crick discovered the structure of the DNA molecule. In the intervening years, DNA and DNA testing have become important parts of criminal investigation. Of course, DNA analysis is more complicated and takes longer than what you might see on TV shows and film. It can take weeks or even months to get results, depending on the situation. And DNA analysis can be costly. So, many smaller police departments don’t have access to convenient laboratory testing.

All that said, though, DNA testing and analysis are woven into a lot of modern crime fiction. Sometimes it’s used to look into ‘cold cases.’ Other times, it’s used to exonerate or implicate someone. There are other uses, too. And it’s interesting to see how different authors integrate this technology.

In Lynda La Plante’s Above Suspicion, we are introduced to Detective Sergeant (DS) Anna Travis, who’s just joined the Murder Squad at Queen’s Park, London. As it happens, it’s a critical time for the team. The body of seventeen-year-old Melissa Stephens has been discovered, and it looks on the surface as though this murder fits the profile of six other murders of women, all killed in exactly the same way. But there are differences. For example, the other victims were all older prostitutes. Melissa was young and not a prostitute. Still, the Murder Squad’s leader, Detective Chief Inspector James Langton, suspects that the same person killed all seven victims. This case isn’t going to be easy. The killer’s been careful and hasn’t left obvious evidence. And some of the murders took place before the use of contemporary DNA testing. Still, the squad persists, and, in the end, it turns out to be DNA that links Melissa and her killer – and connects the other murders, too.

Kazuhiro Kiuchi’s Shield of Straw has an interesting use of DNA evidence. Wealthy Japanese magnate Takaoki Ninagawa is devastated when his granddaughter, Chika, goes missing. Her body is later discovered, and it’s established that she was raped before being murdered. Now, Ninagawa is determined to do something about it. DNA evidence has identified the killer as thirty-four-year-old Kunihide Kiyomaru. So, Ninagawa offers a one-billion yet reward to anyone who kills Kiyomaru and can prove it. He then arranges for a very public announcement and website that explain the matter and outline how a person can claim the reward. When Kiyomaru hears of the reward, he comes out of hiding and turns himself in to the police at Fukuoka. His thinking is that he’ll be safer in prison than he would be with hundreds of thousands of potential assassins after him. In order for him to face trial, he’ll have to be returned to Tokyo, a matter of some 1100 km/685 mi. Special Police(SP) officer Kazuki Mekari of the Tokyo Municipal Police Department (MPD) is tapped to escort Kiyomaru, and he’s given a team of people with whom to do the job. But, with so many people interested in the bounty, it’s going to be difficult to keep their prisoner alive. Even the police aren’t immune to the temptation of so much money. The question becomes: will Kiyumaru be brought back alive to Tokyo? And at what cost?

As useful as DNA evidence is, it can sometimes confuse cases, too. For instance, in one plot thread of Michael Connelly’s The Drop, L.A.P.D. detective Harry Bosch is investigating a decades-old case: the rape and murder of nineteen-year-old Lily Price. The DNA evidence linked Clayton Pell, now twenty-nine and in prison for other sexual crimes, to this crime. The strange thing is, he was eight years old at the time of the murder. So, at least on the surface, either Pell was an unusual child, or something went very wrong at the Regional Crime Lab that processed the DNA evidence. Among other things, the novel shows how DNA evidence can complicate an investigation.

Now that DNA analysis is more common than it was, most people know at least a little about it. Even people with no background at all in medicine or other science are aware of it. We see that, for instance, in Tarquin Hall’s The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing, the second of his novels to feature Delhi-based PI Vishwas ‘Vish’ Puri. In one plot thread of the story, Puri’s mother, Mummy-ji, attends a kitty party with Puri’s wife, Rumpi. Everyone at a kitty party contributes a certain amount of money to the kitty. Then, one person’s name is drawn, and that person wins all the money. This particular party, though, is interrupted when someone breaks in and steals the money. Mummy-ji scratches the thief, and later goes with Rumpi to the local forensics laboratory, demanding that her nails be tested to get the thief’s DNA. Here’s what the lab attendant (the son of one of her oldest friends) says:

‘‘Auntie-ji, I think you’ve been watching too much of CSI on Star TV, isn’t it?”

But Mummy-ji isn’t dismissed so easily as that…

DNA testing is also, of course, used to determine biological relationships. And that, too, can play a role in crime novels. For example, in Peter May’s The Blackhouse, Edinburgh police detective Fionnlagh ‘Fin’ Macleod returns to his home on the Isle of Lewis to help in a murder investigation. Angel Macritchie has been killed, and his murder looks very similar to an Edinburgh case that Macleod is investigating. The hope is that, if it’s the same killer, pooling resources will help catch that person more quickly. This isn’t a happy homecoming for Macleod, though, as he had his own good reasons for leaving in the first place. But, he does his job the best he can, and in the end, finds out the truth about Macritchie’s death. The Isle of Lewis is a small community, the kind where everyone knows everyone. And everyone knows (or knows of) Fin Macleod. So, as the searches for answers, he also has to face his own past, which is connected with those of several other people on the island. And I can say without spoiling the story that sorting out some of those connections involves a DNA test.

People speak almost casually now of DNA testing and analysis. But it’s really only been a straightforward part of criminal investigation for a few decades. And it’s had some profound effects on evidence gathering, criminal procedures, court cases, and a lot more.


*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Prism’s Just Like Me.


Filed under Kazuhiro Kiuchi, Lynda La Plante, Michael Connelly, Peter May, Tarquin Hall